


running on fumes

by nicholese



Series: Gravel [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dysphoria, Exhibitionism, M/M, No Incest, Shotgunning, Stranger Sex, Tastefully blurred age diference, Trans Male Character, Trans Rick Sanchez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 02:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12831387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicholese/pseuds/nicholese
Summary: The kid is pure vanilla soft serve, sprinkled generously with mommy issues.Rick gets Morty high and gay.





	running on fumes

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful Fitzcarraldo. Without her edits, this fic would still be riddled with errors.

It always feels a little like coming home, and seeing that all your potted plants have died.

This thought drifts through Rick's mind as he enters the dive, wincing as he treads onto a sticky spot. It's ass o'clock in the morning and far too odd an hour for anyone decent to be awake. Some amateur band grinds away at a poorly-rehearsed set, and Rick wishes that the FC were still around to replace them. But with one member dead and the other missing, he'll just have to tune out the din like everyone else. Rick's hands strum an imperfect chord on his thighs, recalling their one claim to fame, decades ago in a shithole like this one.

Rick slips past gratuitously gyrating bodies, somehow managing not to accidentally grope anybody. Once settled at the bar, he downs a steady succession of shots, slapping down a wad of bills to cover the inevitably large tab. Sensing his intention, the bald bartender knows to keep the liquor flowing.

Rick is somewhere between number five and six, well on his way to being completely wasted, when he spots a short kid arguing with the bouncer before getting ID'd. With that stupidly round face and chubby cheeks, Rick would like to see him try. Amazingly, he gets to slip inside. The boy carries himself with a strange mix of fright and pride, cringing when people turn to leer at the new meat but strutting about with hands tucked in his pockets. Instead of jostling and teasing him, most people actually step back to let him pass, sensing the incongruity of his presence.

His lack of any embellishment whatsoever marks him out instantly. In stark contrast to the ruffled bodices and polyester fishnet stockings around him, the kid wears a plain yellow tee and faded jeans. His perfectly combed sandy brown hair looks like something done in preparation for a yearbook photograph. White school shoes adorn his feet. Dressed in those ridiculously ordinary clothes, Rick could well imagine him simply leaving the house that night, shuffling past arguing parents and disinterested siblings. Nobody missing or caring about him, about to give no fucks about all the rules.

Rick is intrigued—and if he's being honest, more than slightly sympathetic.

"What's your name," Rick shouts over the throb and stamp of synthesizers and an organically swaying crowd. A roving spotlight chooses that moment to shine on that lone figure, gliding his messy curls with gold. For a moment, Rick thinks that he's pretty.

The kid looks up skeptically, hopefully, nearly transparent in his utter disbelief that somebody has noticed him. He walks over, mouth moving, but whatever he calls himself is lost to the ambient noise. Rick gestures to his ears, willing the kid to lean in closer.

Even better, the boy positions his lips right next to Rick's face, whispering straight into his left ear. Rick almost misses what he says, he's so distracted by the dramatic increase in proximity. His boots slide against the stainless steel stool as he steadies himself, shocked as well. Everything else fades into white noise with Morty's voice in his ear and his heart in his throat, cardiac muscles hammering a beat unlike ever before.

Rick takes a moment to smooth down his shirt, purposely stretching the thin material to practically expose his chest, covered only by a layer of stained cotton. It's an attempt to buy time and works like a charm. Hesitantly, Morty's calf-like brown eyes trail down Rick's torso. Rick has never denied the physical benefits of his various extracurricular activities, which are balanced out by the chances of being maimed, imprisoned or sentenced to death, but adrenaline really does wonders to his metabolism. He grins widely, not missing the kid's incredulity at glimpsing a flash of metal from his pierced tongue.

While Morty openly ogles him, Rick downs another shot of Bombay Sapphire, relishing the burning clarity of gin. Laid plainly before him, the facts are not reassuring. Having a painfully adolescent boy make Rick lose his mind has never been part of any plan. He's only here to get completely black-out drunk, leaving no mental processing space for memory. Drink and repeat is a formula with guaranteed success. Experience has taught Rick that getting laid is usually something thought of in advance, never without any thinking beforehand. The state of being naked and excited lends itself to uniquely easy murder attempts. The kid is so genuinely green it seems fake, but Rick has never encountered a hypothesis that didn't warrant testing.

Still, the heavy weight of something between them can't be ignored. Morty is obviously enjoying his first taste of letting go, plunging head-first in a place known for nothing but trouble. Rare as they might be, Rick knows his type, or at least the one he's playing as. The unique scent of floral detergent from his clean clothes, boyish sweat and maternal repression coalesces into a fine aroma of suburban bliss. These cul-de-sac, biking to school, GPA 3.7 kids are a fine catch for anyone willing to perpetuate self-destructive behaviour.

Rick would be more than happy to oblige him, especially with the obligatory ass wreckage. Perhaps—he allows himself to think—the kid is a virgin. He eyes the hints of leftover baby fat that round out Morty, gangly and adolescent and hunched over his drink, a piddly Sprite mixer. Perfect.

Just then, a burly man dressed in overly-metallic leathers lumbers over towards them. The bear places one enormous paw on Morty, covering his entire left shoulder. He rumbles unintelligibly at Morty, who flashes Rick a panicked, rabbity look. That's when Rick knows that Morty isn't faking anything—a real whore or con artist would have eagerly grabbed that chance.

Acting entirely on instinct, Rick hauls the boy away—he's light as a kitten—and onto his lap.

He trails a hand up Morty's shirt, leaving tiny little goosebumps, and pinches his nipples. Morty yowls and twists on Rick, fortunately avoiding contact with the crotch of his pants. For good measure, and because Rick is first and foremost an opportunist, he also licks a wet stripe up Morty's neck. The kid is pure vanilla soft serve, sprinkled generously with mommy issues.

The leatherhead grunts irritably and moves on, boots creaking. Rick and Morty watch as he disappears into the throng of flailing bodies, and neither of them moves an inch.

They breathe in tandem. Rick has never been so uncertain about his impulse control, and the fear is agonizing. Still, Morty doesn't seem to be getting upset about being molested by a complete stranger. In fact, he self-consciously touches the damp patch of licked skin, smiling. Rick feels his chest loosen up a little. Morty gets comfortable on him, settling back and tickling Rick's nose with his soft brown hair. The back of the boy's shoulders align with Rick's collarbones, and somehow this intimacy feels natural. Rick thinks about how Morty can feel the beating of his heart, too. His skin feels strangely permeable as Morty melts against him.

One final test. Rick brings up the shot glass to Morty's lips, neither tilting it nor saying anything, just an innocent suggestion that any real cop would reject straightaway. Morty darts his tongue out to taste, then gulps it all down.

"You legal?"

The bouncer has a notoriously greasy palm. Rick has no idea if the whole thing is too good to be true, if this gorgeously ordinary boy is actually a cop with a serious case of babyface, part of some sting operation that ends with his name on a sex offender registry.

He can't help but knead the childish fat of Morty's ass while asking, cherishing what may be the last touch. If this ends now, Rick will savour every moment while jerking off and crying during communal prison showers like the paedophile he is.

"Turned eighteen l-last month," Morty admits, voice high and slight body trembling with poorly concealed excitement. Rick runs his slender hands up jean-covered thighs, enjoying the way Morty's muscles jump under the Levi's. The universe is feeling unusually benevolent today, seemingly having made a divine intervention to cater to Rick's uncommon tastes. Barely-legal twinks reeking of suburbia and rebellion don't just stumble into seedy bars like this. Rick intends to fully take advantage of this opportunity.

Another thing altogether instantly responds to Rick's caresses, and Morty squeezes his legs shut, flushed with alcohol and embarrassment. Rick lowers his face to meet his gaze and smiles deviously. He wriggles just so that Morty can feel evidence of his own arousal, pressing upwards into the cleft of Morty's jeans. They are four layers from doing it, if Rick has remembered to wear boxers.

Morty sobs brokenly, sounding absolutely terrified. With a dark thrill of sadism shooting through his veins, a hundred times more potent than anything from a syringe, Rick deliberately places a hand between Morty's legs. Exerting the slightest pressure, he whispers into the delicate shell of one pink ear. This close, Morty's skin radiates heat, fuelled by that adolescent blend of hormones and daring.

"Ask for it."

Morty only struggles to rock his hips, seeking friction, but Rick holds him firmly with the other hand. The threat is evident in the corded muscle of his arm, which pins down the writhing teenager without any difficulty. They're facing the bar, but what's happening is probably blatantly obvious. Both of them are keenly aware of the few pairs of eyes watching. The difference is how one is better at pretending.

Biting back a squeal, Morty digs trimmed fingernails into Rick's arms as he teases the boy, pressing down hard enough to hurt.

"P-p-please," Morty stutters out, sounding precariously close to tears. Rick grasps this petty power with shameless glee, enjoying how utterly predictable the boy is. Average.

Rick sips the last of his whiskey, taking his time.

"All right, Morty," he growls, and using his left hand proceeds to set a blazing pace, as if to punish the boy for being so effortlessly and innocently slutty. His thumb swipes rapidly at the head of Morty's clothed dick, now obscenely tenting his pants. The boy's struggle to restrain himself from making a sound is getting Rick interested, and he subtly shifts in his seat. Minute shudders rush up and down Morty's spine as he nears completion.

Just as suddenly, Rick stops, leaving his palm pressed against Morty's crotch and just chilling there. Without any qualms, Morty earnestly ruts into his hand, making small panting noises. Somehow that's better, hotter than if he was screaming Rick's name. Morty's slender thighs rub against Rick's lap as he moves.

Dampness blooms on the front of Morty's jeans as he jerks and sobs through his first public orgasm. Through it all, Rick croons praise into his cute circular ears. Morty flops tiredly onto his chest, heaving. The back of his shirt is plastered with sweat.

"Great job, babe," Rick says, and glances casually at the impromptu audience. A few creeps grin. Rick hands Morty his denim jacket to hide the stain, which the boy gratefully accepts, his face probably cherry red under normal lighting conditions. A few people clap sarcastically as Rick hustles Morty out of the bar, causing the boy to tense up, and his shoulders rise.

"All in good fun," he says jovially. They stumble out into the lifeless street, relishing how the cold seeps into their overheated bodies. Morty looks more than a little dazed, unconsciously tightening his hands on Rick's jacket.

"I have cigarettes," he tells Morty. "But this calls for something special."

They make their way down to Rick's compact little Ford Mustang, good for transporting felons from heist to hideout and not much else. Gravel crunches under Rick's boots as he flings open the door and jerks a thumb. Inside the car, Morty's eyes take in the dingy surroundings, and his fingers idly disturb the window crank.

Rick digs under the dashboard compartment for the plastic baggie, throwing the mess of yellow maps and empty cartons into even greater disarray. His hands go through the motions with the ease of practice, quickly and efficiently rolling up two joints. Rick likes them fresh, and also the look of wonder on the kid's dumb face, though it seems kinda sweet right now. Rick pats his curly head absently and Morty hums, apparently without noticing. The poor kid is so incredibly responsive; resisting the temptation to play him like a guitar is proving incredibly difficult.

Lighting up a joint, Rick pops it into his mouth and then hands Morty the other one. The kid stares at it uncomprehendingly, mouth open the way a fish may ogle a calculus problem.

Rick snatches his own blunt from his lips, blowing smoke.

"See, Morty? It's not rocket science."

Rick hands the kid his lighted one, and Morty copies his actions. Almost immediately he exhales violently, and the small plume of smoke that trickles from his lips almost exclusively consists of saliva. Noticing that some has sprayed onto Rick's face, Morty squeaks loudly, taking out a fucking square piece of cloth and daubing at the spit. This teenager carries a handkerchief. How could Rick have ever mistaken him for a cop?

"You're not my mother," Rick notes with amusement. Still, the old-fashioned gesture is quite touching. He grabs the discarded joint and inhales again.

"Let's try this," he tells Morty, sounding strained from speaking high in his throat to keep the smoke inside. Before the kid can react, Rick surges up to him—and mashes their mouths together. By actual understanding or due to pure shock, Morty sucks in a deep breath as Rick exhales, and weed-infused air passes from one man to the other.

"Better?"

Rick swipes his tongue over his teeth, and sees the kid immediately fixate on the movement.

"That didn't mean anything," Rick feels the need to say. The kid nods shakily, eyes blown wide and reflecting the halo of streetlights outside.

They fall into an easy rhythm, with Rick leaning over on every other drag. Rick watches the kid with hooded eyes, comfortably settled in worn leather. The cramped confines don't feel stifling at all, even as it fills with smoke. Morty begins to relax and a dopey grin stretches his face.

With all the hallucinogens buzzing in his system, it takes Rick some time to realize that Morty's getting into the spirit of things a bit more than expected. Morty makes strange sucking movements when he leans in to give him a puff, which develops into a real attempt at kissing not a minute later.

Rick breaks away in shock, hastily stubbing out the joint on some newspaper, a street directory, whatever.

"W-What the hell are you doing," he snarls, wiping at his mouth.

The kid presses against the door, but a stupid determination sets his face.

"I, I thought t-that's what people do, when, when they're interested in each other," Morty bites out unwillingly. He sounds surprisingly coherent for somebody getting high for the first time. It appears that the only thing marijuana impaired is his sense of judgement.

Rick barks in laughter, sour and disbelieving. The kid thought that Rick was hitting on him. The kid actually thought that Rick Sanchez was hitting on him.

"What fucking Disney cartoon do you come from," Rick sneers. "This isn't about, l-interest. It's lust."

"B-but, you, you touched me," the kid protests, wounded.

"Ever heard of hooking up?" Rick snorts. "You don't go to a, a dive looking for flowers and shit, boyo."

Morty sniffs like a preschool girl after learning the truth about Santa Claus.

"I n-never tried that before," he admits.

Rolling his eyes, Rick answers, "Yeah, that wasn't immediately obvious."

Maybe it’s the weed, or the general air of abandonment about Morty, from home and whatever morality he grew up with, but Rick finds his anger ebbing away, replaced by a weird curiosity. He unclenches his fists, feeling the tension uncoil within him.

"Consider this a favour," Rick says quietly, "to anyone unfortunate enough to attract you in the future."

Rick moves in for the kill, bracing an arm on either side of Morty's face. The boy's face is frozen in a comical mask of fear, likely recalling too late parental admonishments about stranger danger. Rick tilts his head, teeth bared, and proceeds to nibble Morty's plush lower lip. The kid goes slack, before responding with enthusiasm. Rick pulls away with yet more drool on his face. He narrows his eyes, carefully calibrating adjustments to technique. Morty whimpers.

"You have to," Rick murmurs into the warm wet space between them, "stop thinking I'm a rocket pop."

Neither of them have noticed how Morty has fisted his hands in the hem of Rick's shirt, yanking helplessly at the loose material. It's just the crash and slide of two people overly drugged out to care about getting hurt. Then Morty thrusts his tongue into Rick's mouth and any ideas about the lesson fly out of Rick's head and soar into the light-polluted sky. The taste of Morty's strawberry toothpaste is foreign on Rick's alcohol-soaked palate, but in a pleasant way. Rick shivers as Morty teases the sensitive flesh behind his incisors, then groans when a knee moves up to press at his parted legs. A choked whine escapes as he glares at Morty.

"You little p-piece of—shit," Rick hisses. The pressure between his legs is growing increasingly unbearable, but neither is he willing to pause contact with Morty's soft little mouth. Finally, they break apart to breathe properly. In the heated moments that follow, Morty releases his grip on Rick's shirt, and his hands wander up to brush messy strands of pale hair.

"I c-can't tell the colour," Morty says dreamily, breath puffing hot and quiet on Rick's exposed neck. "But it's nice."

Rick should be feeling disgustingly vulnerable, but the arousal that coils in his belly leaves no room for that. Under normal circumstances he would not tolerate another person's touch, except perhaps for genital contact. Yet, this boringly pedestrian boy has managed to blow all of his usual protocol into fragments.

Morty jerks up a little at hearing the clack of the door unlocking. They both know that it's an empty offer, and in the next moment Rick seals their fate with the push of a button. Morty twists like he's about to put on the seatbelt, then simply slouches back with arms crossed.

Rick abruptly makes a detour down a grubby street, pausing outside the only lighted shopfront in a row of deserted buildings. It's a mom-and-pop discount store. Turning to peer curiously at Rick, Morty's about to open his mouth before a crumpled pile of cash is dropped into his hands. Rick glares impatiently at the mute boy sitting beside him and blushing furiously. He's more than ready to fuck right there and then, damn the cops.

"Well," Rick drawls nonchalantly. "You really wanna go bareback, huh?"

This sends Morty scampering out of his seat like it's on fire.

Rick watches the scene playing out through a window front sprayed with fake snow and decorated with reindeer figurines, smiling to himself. It would be better with audio, but Rick has to content himself with a silent movie. Nervously adjusting Rick's jacket around his slim waist, Morty lingers around the candy aisle, carefully inspecting the neat rows of chocolate and chewing gum. Slowly but surely, he circles the shop, making his way to the small display case filled with cardboard boxes. Rick drums his fingers on the steering wheel, wondering about the need to hurry Morty with a few short blasts of the car horn, but ultimately decides against startling the kid. It's almost definitely his first one night stand, and Rick wants to make it memorable—not necessarily in a positive way.

Finally, Morty summons up the courage to grab a box, run over to the counter and hurl it down. It's such a pity that his face is blocked by low-hanging sparkly tinsel. He stays there for a while longer than expected, presumably getting ID'd again. Rick chuckles dryly to himself. Once inside, Morty slams the car door and sets the laminated Durex box down with greater force than necessary.

"I. Hate you," he grits out.

Still, during the drive, should Rick have taken his eyes off the road ahead, he would have seen something very different in Morty's eyes.

With a smooth turn of the steering wheel, Rick pulls the Mustang over to an ugly strip mall. They wait impatiently as the blonde receptionist swipes Rick's credit card—he's far too gone to carry out simple calculations—and all but bolt to their room. As they step onto the worn shag carpet, Morty gazes around with revulsion, as if it's his very first glimpse of a sleazy motel. To be honest, Rick thinks that this sits on the higher end of the spectrum. It's more old than dirty, with the sharp scent of Dettol lending an air of ardent maintenance.

Morty shuffles to the bed and sits at the edge, looking exactly like a miniature prude, not somebody who had aggressively made out with Rick not thirty minutes ago. Walking over, Rick gives into the urge to mess up his brown curls. To prevent Morty from getting any ideas about this brief contact, Rick pinches the fat of his cheeks, causing the boy to squirm.

"Hey kiddo," he smirks. "Let's get nasty."

When Rick emerges from the bathroom, the boy is nude except for a pair of mint green panties. A tiny satin bow adorns the hem. Although slightly spoiled by the stain, the sight makes Rick stop in his tracks, and his mental processes stutter. Morty gazes up at him through lowered eyelashes, probably something he learned from watching softcore hentai. Smugness drips from him like a melting ice cream cone.

"Whoa," Rick tries to say, but he sounds more than choked. Morty lets Rick lay him on the bed, the taunt curve of his panty-covered ass on display. Tugging the cloth down, Rick wonders aloud if Morty had bought it on his own.

Morty shifts uncomfortably. "Stolen from my s-sister," he admits.

"You're too young for this shit," Rick says admiringly as he smacks one firm butt cheek. He dips a finger into cool gloop, then rests his hand at the divot of his ass.

Morty trembles.

"What's that," he squeaks.

"Aloe vera lotion." Rick had found it abandoned next to a cake of soap, a few months past the expiry date. The kid makes a low, contented hum as Rick presses the first knuckle in. Circling the tight furls of muscle, Rick's fingernail eventually brushes the hard nub of Morty's prostate.

The kid bucks against his hand and screams. Rick crooks his hand a little to the side, and speaking from experience, Morty flails around as if electrocuted. Withdrawing his lotion-slick fingers, Rick taps his chin thoughtfully. The kid's obviously, horribly repressed, but this degree of sensitivity is rather unexpected. Rick bites his lower lip as he thinks of how that kid would sound like on his cock.

"Get the condoms," he commands.

Shakily, Morty leans over to grab the box, tearing it open before staring at the plastic circles in confusion. Of course he hadn't paid attention in health ed class. Sighing, Rick has to actually help the kid roll it on. He gives the poor organ a comforting pat for being attached to such an idiot.

The plan had been to give orders, forcing Morty to kneel like a dog and take it. Now, Rick can't resist as Morty pushes down and straddles him. The slight weight still makes him breathless. Morty carelessly kicks away the panties as they slide down to his ankles, then helps Rick take off his pants. Like a damn fairground ride, Rick thinks irritably as the boy moves, ass meeting hips with helpless panting noises. He settles back, letting Morty set the pace. It's not a bad show, for something amateur and free. The kid's chest is flushed pink, his small nipples strawberry red. Suddenly, just as Rick is considering tweaking one of those delectable nipples, Morty cries out and spasms. The condom fills. Reaching down with satisfaction glowing on his face, Morty curls a hand around Rick.

The gap between skin and prosthetic is briefly nudged by his thumb.

Rick's pulse hammers in a decidedly un-erotic way. Without thinking, he pushes Morty off and strides to the bathroom, enduring the traitorous tackiness between his legs.

Tense minutes later, a hesitant knock issues from the flimsy door. When it shows no sign of opening soon, the kid starts to move away, but hastily returns.

"I d-don't know why you're s-so angry." Morty's voice comes through slightly muffled.

"But... can you show me h-how to take this off?"

Despite himself, Rick laughs loudly. He yanks the door wide open to see Morty cradling his flaccid, condom-covered penis with the care one bestows on dying roadkill. With practised efficiency, the dirtied plastic is tied up and disposed of in an overflowing waste bin.

Rick turns around after washing his hands to meet Morty's expectant gaze. With the kid so vertically challenged it's not easy to tell, but Rick can be certain that he's staring directly at his crotch. All too late, Rick wishes that he had picked somebody else, the usual tit who doesn't make him think they deserve a private room at all. In the gloomy darkness of an alleyway or a cubicle's flickering fluorescence, the scars on his chest and the cold silicone of his dick can usually escape notice. An achingly unreadable expression has settled on Morty's face. A couple of moments pass as Rick waits for the kid to get upset, but there's only an eerie blankness.

Stiffly, Rick starts to move away. He can't blame anyone, after all.

A smaller hand catches his wrist.

"Thank you," Morty whispers, his voice cracking. "That was the best t-time of my, my whole en-entire life. And you if made it happen, using, uh, whatever, I really don't care. It was re-really good.”

Rick sniffs derisively. With a firm tug of his wrist and other adjustments, the prosthetic detaches. He carelessly tosses it into the sink and runs the tap.

"There won't be enough hot water for two people," he tells Morty, keeping his tone flat. Rick peels off his sodden shirt, feeling a gust of cold air prickle his skin and the faint crescent scars.

Oddly enough, the boy picks up on the hidden invitation and squeezes into the shower cubicle as well. As predicted, the liquid dribble from the shower head soon turns chilly. Aside from when Rick has to slap him for pissing on the floor, Morty proves to be the most polite person he's ever bathed with. The kid keeps his staring to a minimum but doesn't purposefully avert his gaze. Rick washes out the last of the soap and turns to get out.

A flick of the power switch plunges their environs into darkness. The bed isn't designed to comfortably accommodate two grown men, or at least a relatively tall one and a midget, a fact that becomes painfully apparent when Morty smashes his elbow into Rick's nose.

"Sorry," he mumbles. Rick grunts in acknowledgement, and they drift into unconsciousness.

Some time during the night, Rick realises that his left arm has fallen asleep under Morty's head, and the feeling of the kid smushed against him isn't so bad after all. He closes his eyes before that thought can go under closer scrutiny.

Intense disorientation overwhelms him upon waking, not because of the bland, unfamiliar surroundings, but rather due to the presence of a warm body snuggled next to him. Rick relaxes as recognition kicks in.

"I can't go out like this," Morty whines, gesturing at the crusty spot at the fly of his jeans. At this point Rick is paying more attention to his flushed nudity.

"Let me check," Rick answers distractedly. He returns from the car with an armful of bunched material and dumps it on Morty's lap. Astonishment washes over Morty's face as he unfolds the taffeta skirt.

"W-what the hell, man!" Morty sputters indignantly.

"Couldn't find anything else that fits your tiny ass." Rick yawns, annoyed. Post-coital sleepiness is the only thing he dislikes about sex, aside from STDs. He wants nothing more than to shower properly and get a drink, not necessarily in that order. Avoiding clingy lays is a major reason why he usually sticks to lurking in public bathrooms.

"W-Whose is it?"

An adorable expression of disgust warps Morty's face. Rick smacks his bare ass for even daring to imagine that of him. Yelping, Morty tugs on the skirt. It fits his waist, but barely extends to mid-thigh, exposing the fine downy hair on his calves.

"Eh, my daughter," Rick answers. Beth had never looked so cute while wearing that.

Morty blanches, as if knowing that would have stopped him. "You-you're married?"

Rick laughs, but it turns out to be more of a grimace.

"Not anymore."

Two instant coffees and the receptionist's judgmental smile later, they're outside. In the cold light of early morning, Morty has gone all shy again. His hands worry at the hem of the skirt, fluttering like small birds. Rick wonders if this taste of novel debauchery had sated the boy, and would he slink back to his family house and interrupt a Tupperware party. If weeks from now, Morty will wake up half-hard and gasping on seed-slicked sheets, remembering the feel of Rick and trembling. Slipping a knuckle into himself and wishing that it was him. Or perhaps the floodgates were opened, sending this young urbanite careening down the streets into other, more dangerous men, men who would feed the fire and burn him out.

It doesn't sound so good anymore.

Rick realises that he has been mooning into the distance like some lovesick high schooler and also, Morty is still lingering there, staring at him. He coughs awkwardly.

"Hey," Morty says quietly. "I can't go a-about with t-this, so..."

Rick sighs and digs out some bills. "Yeah, sorry about that."

The apology sounds cheap and false in the chill air. Enjoying the lovely sight of this boy in a skirt, legs pressed coyly together, Rick yearns to snap a picture.

Morty starts to turn away, but suddenly rushes back, standing on his toes and flinging his skinny arms around Rick's neck. Rick finds himself hugging back, secretly glad. Wishing that he can distill this memory, the tactile sensation of quivering boy and his hurried, anxious breath, and drink that instead of alcohol.

Neither of them speak for a few prolonged seconds, not wanting to spoil anything. Finally, Morty presses cold lips to his, a chaste quick thing that nevertheless leaves his head spinning.

"One for the road," he mutters, and when Rick opens his eyes the parking lot is empty.

 

 


End file.
